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“Are there any reports from Verdant?” Lambert asked.  “How are they reacting to this?”

“I haven’t heard anything yet,” Thompson replied.  “I’m sure they’re monitoring the situation, but the gravity of this might not have reached anyone outside of the CnC.  I’ll get an update.”

Lambert nodded as Thompson rose from his seat and headed for the door.  “Let me know if things are getting bad up there.  Nothing like escaping a disaster and landing in the middle of a riot.”

Thompson smiled grimly at him before he exited the room.  “That’s the spirit.”

~

Verdant’s Command and Control center usually carried the atmosphere of an open office full of relaxed cubicle-workers, talking openly and joking, passing information back and forth, and tending to their work with the quiet efficiency of people who knew what they were doing.  The atmosphere in the CnC today, however, was noticeably different.

Various scenes of the spreading plumes of ash, evacuation efforts, North American and global weather data, and concerned news reports from around the world were displayed on a myriad of monitor screens on the desks.  The reports were in many languages, many of them being translated by the GLIS, the station’s Governing Logistics Intelligence System, into Universal English for the benefit of the staff.  Personnel quick-stepped back and forth, from desk to desk, sharing data or asking questions of each other, and trying to collate everything they were seeing.  The GLIS spoke as well, multiple dialogues from multiple speakers, supplying data or answering questions as requested.  An individual would have had to raise their voice to be noticed above the commotion.  Despite the artificial daylighting in the room, the CnC felt dark and ominous today, as if the ash clouds over Wyoming were somehow blocking their light, too.

The room consisted of two outer rows of control and monitoring desks set in a rectangular pattern, with the desks on each side of the rectangle oriented to the open area in the center of the room.  A command station as large as six of the outer desks dominated the central space, itself dominated by an elaborate wrap-around control panel, a number of large viewscreens on its surface and suspended from the high ceiling above, and a three-dimensional display column in its center.  Of the personnel coming and going throughout the CnC, they mostly gave a wide berth to the central station, and to the man and woman standing side-by-side there.

They wore identical green blazers, complete with the Verdant logo over the left breast pocket, matching green trousers, and cream-colored shirts, the mark of senior governing personnel.  Beyond that, there was very little about them that seemed similar.  He was European in features, handsome, an inch over six feet, just a few years into the second half-century of his life, and with the slight paunch to prove it; outwardly calm, but very alert, taking in the data before him and the reactions around the room with calculating eyes.  She was a small, fighting-trim, dusky Latina who didn’t look like she’d reached thirty yet.  Her pretty face, dominated by large, expressive eyes, was tempered by a strong and confident gaze that suggested an unwavering confidence and dedication to duty. 

She watched the viewscreens in obvious dismay, absently using her hand to cover her open mouth.  “This is painful to watch,” she muttered, too softly for her words to get any further than the man standing next to her.  The man glanced at her… perhaps just to make sure she was bearing up under the stress of the situation… and nodded lightly, but otherwise said nothing.

A voice called out from an overhead speaker… the voice of the GLIS.  “Ceo Lenz?”

The man at the central station allowed his eyes to drift upward at the ceiling, as if looking at the speaker was the same as looking at the Governing Logistics Intelligence System.  The GLIS speakers and monitoring pods all looked like fist-sized soccer balls, their white faceted surfaces allowing for uni-directional sound and sensory input and output.  The sound was directed at him well enough that it was easy to pick out which pod had spoken to him.

Once the man’s eyes had fixed on the appropriate pod, it spoke again.  “Raw stock deliveries to Verdant are already being postponed or cancelled throughout the Americas.  Manufacturing schedules will be immediately impacted in six on-board plants.”

“Understood,” the man nodded.  “Are you still monitoring Aerospace Force One?”

“Yes.  They report no adverse difficulty getting through the atmosphere.  ETA is still 1915.”

“Prepare a list of plant personnel, starting from non-essential and working up, for an interim leave schedule.”

“Very good,” the GLIS responded.

Next to him, the woman nodded, though she did not take her eyes off the screens.  “Might as well.  It’s not as if they’d get much work done during this.”

“Agreed.”  The man glanced at the woman.  “Do you have family near Yellowstone?”

“Are you kidding?” the woman replied, and flashed him an ironic half-grin.  “I don’t think there’s a ten-square-klick plot on Earth where you won’t find a member of the extended Luis clan.”  He chuckled, not too heartily.  “Hopefully,” she continued more seriously, “none that couldn’t get out of there in time.”

The man and woman exchanged glances, then furtively stole a glance about them at those in the rest of CnC.  They were the top of the command structure, and it would not pay to set a bad example to the rest of the staff, or show an inappropriate level of concern during a crisis.  Julian Lenz, “Jules” to those closest to him, Chief Executive Officer of Verdant, had seen his share of executives who’d lost their positions due to a lapse in professionalism at an inopportune time—like when a media camera was on them, or a disgruntled employee was in earshot—and had no interest in playing the defensive role with his career.  He was just too old for that nonsense.

His second in command, Executive Officer Reya Luis, was probably not quite as concerned for her career as he was… but she was just as professional, and understood about professional propriety.  Her comment about her extended family was already a well-known and well-worn running gag in CnC, and therefore hardly something to take issue with.  Even so, she’d kept it pitched low enough to avoid anyone else overhearing... with the possible exception of the GLIS.

They both looked up when they noticed someone new entering the CnC and approaching the central station.  His green blazer was identical with those worn by Julian and Reya, marking him as another senior command member.

When he reached the station, Julian asked, “How’s it going, Aaron?”

The newcomer shook his head.  “I’ve been arguing with freighter company heads for the past hour, trying to get their scheduled shipments up here.  I needed my office, for a little quiet.  Not that it helped, I think.”

Julian pursed his lips but did not reply.  Aaron Hardy, his Chief of Operations, was unmatched for his ability to juggle resources and assignments on-the-fly.  He was not so expert at dealing with people, though… and Julian doubted he’d put up much of a fight with any of the freighter lines who had reservations about flying through ash-filled skies.  Not that he blamed them for arguing the point, or for that matter, Aaron for conceding it—it was downright hazardous down there.  But every freight delivery they lost was going to put them tighter in a bind, and that was not something to look forward to.

Reya Luis looked up at Aaron—both Aaron and Julian were a head taller than she was—and said, “I doubt there’s much you could say to get them to fly through that.”

Aaron nodded in agreement.  “A U.N. Coo is pretty much outranked by the GAA.  They’re already recommending flight cancellations across the board.”  He looked at Julian.  “I may be able to convince more of them to switch to ballistic deliveries, at least for awhile, but I don’t know how well that will sit with them.  How are things looking from here, Jules?”

“Lousy,” Julian replied honestly.  “The caldera doesn’t show any signs of letting up.”

Aaron grimaced.  “Resources are going to get tight.  I’d recommend going to level four conservation restrictions before the day is out.”

“Before the
hour
is out,” Luis suggested.

Julian looked at them both.  “Level four it is,” he agreed.  “Reset the GLIS.  In the meantime,” he added to Aaron, “see if there are any southern hemisphere vendors looking for some new opportunities.  Before all the windows are closed on us.”

“Already put some feelers out,” Aaron smiled.  He knew his job, no doubt about it.  “Wishing on a star.”

“Well, we’ve got a few,” Julian said lightly.  He gave the room a quick once-over, and seemed satisfied that there was not much else he could do at the moment.  Then he turned and strode to a door with a small plaque that said, simply, “CEO.”  The door slid open for him, and closed behind him.

Julian’s office was noticeably quieter, the moment the door closed, making him realize perhaps for the first time how uncharacteristically hectic it had been in CnC.  He took the moment to draw in a deep, cleansing breath, and let it out, willing himself to relax… he was afraid he might not have many opportunities to do that in the immediate future.  Then he crossed the office, circling around the executive-sized desk at the far end of the room.

As he sat down at the desk, various controls and screens embedded in the desk’s surface came to life, giving him overall information on the operations of Verdant, and the option of digging deeper into any of them.  His hand drifted to one area of the desk, the controls for the viewscreen that filled the long wall directly in front of him.  Ironically, that wall faced the outer skin of Verdant… but between the outer shell, the internal plumbing and wiring, and shielding, an actual window to the outside would have to be three meters thick to be usable… a viewscreen made much more sense, besides being inherently safer.  He tapped out a sequence, and at once, the entire wall came alive with a crystal-clear view of Earth.

So clear and still was the image, that Julian could easily believe he was sitting before a wide window, staring directly down at Earth from an impossibly tall building… instead of from Verdant’s relative position, in geosynchronous orbit 36,000 km above Earth’s surface.  From that distance, the entire sphere of the Earth was visible on the screen, its mostly blue-white atmosphere ably hiding the environmental damage that millennia of human habitation had wrought… and almost centered on the screen, the reddish cloud that was spreading over the North American landmass like a massive, lethal wound.  The final blow that would undo the last century’s dedicated efforts of reconstruction and reclamation.  The straw that would break the camel’s back.

And Verdant was helpless to watch… as were the other satellites, Tranquil, Fertile, and Qing.  No, even worse than that: Verdant and the other satellites were not self-sufficient, and depended upon Earth for supplies and raw materials, by design; Earth was the anchor to which they were all tethered… and if Earth went down, the satellites would be dragged down with it.

They were all in trouble.

At that moment, there was a
ping
that seemed to emanate from the very air around him, the subtle but penetrating alert tone of the GLIS.  Following the ping, one of the desktop screens began displaying text, a message that would be relayed throughout Verdant, which read:

All personnel and residents: By order of the CEO, due to the crisis on Earth caused by the Yellowstone Caldera, Verdant has been placed on Level 4 conservation restrictions until further notice.

Julian stared at the message for a moment.  He had little confidence that the conservation restrictions would get any better, anytime soon.  He silently prayed for them all.

Aerospace Force One slid carefully into the slip that was always reserved for it in Verdant’s private craft bay. Many of the monitoring systems that usually provided telemetry from incoming ships were dark, owing to the cloaks and classified feeds aboard the Presidential jet. Nonetheless, the dock monitors watched the ship as it eased into its slip, doing their job to at least visually confirm that there was nothing out-of-the-ordinary about their approach.

The jet was similar to many medium-sized military jets on the outside, most notably its lack of viewports, its beam-ablative shielding, and its defensive laser turrets and missile ports. Its interior was, of course, classified, but no one would have been surprised at the level of creature comforts within, many of which had supposedly contributed to more than one executive or staff member’s achieving membership in the “100-mile high club.” (Interestingly, having sex on Verdant or the other satellites was never counted as membership in that club, as being on a habitation satellite was considered too much like being on Earth. But any spacecraft that had achieved high orbit or further qualified, and it was the rare ship that was not duly “christened” within a few flights.)

The jet finally touched against its moorings, and was captured by the docking mechanisms. The outer doors then began to close, and once sealed, the inner walls came down, bringing the craft fully inside the bay. Like all private bays, the reception areas were not open to the public, so there were no photographers or reporters waiting to catch a glimpse of the President the moment the jet’s hatch opened. It was large enough to accommodate the entire staff and crew, however, so it was often used as a waiting area while transportation was arranged to the Presidential Compound.

President Lambert finally stepped out of his mobile office. Though the last few hours had weighed heavily on him, he still had the ability common to most career politicians to hide his feelings and his fatigue when in public. He was a tall man, with broad shoulders that did not need assistance from padded suit shoulders, and a body kept in trim by an exercise regimen that had only recently begun to lose to the inevitable rigors of office. He was handsome in a rugged manner, with a studiously-high forehead, deep, sympathetic eyes, a mobile mouth and a strong chin. Just the sight of him was inspiring to many of his staffers, a trait that had in no small way contributed to his attainment of the highest office of the nation. In fact, he was easily as good-looking a male as his running-mate, Lena Carruthers, was a female; the only real difference between them was that he was actually capable of running a country, whereas Carruthers was more of a figurehead intended for photo-ops and PR, the usual jobs foisted on Vice-Presidents, and couldn’t run a county government without help.